I force my attention off of the tray and onto the session I’m supposed to be observing.
Gerrold and his son are supposedly running this session, but if you pay attention, you see that Malcolm is in control. What’s more, Gerrold and his people tell Malcolm lots of things, revealing themselves to him, whereas Malcolm reveals nothing of himself, yet he seems deeply engaged all the same, all questions and lively interest.
That’s a true kind of power, I think, where you’re running things and people don’t even know it. Though he’s just as comfortable using his overt power, especially outside of the negotiating room. The power of him growling at people and sending them scurrying. He’s so intense and mercurial. The center of every room. A magnificent beast.
Two hours in, we get a break. I’m standing outside on the rooftop balcony with Nisha and Walt. Walt’s sneaking a vape that smells like cherries.
“He’s so different,” I say. “Malcolm down there.”
“This is a point that we frequently discuss,” Nisha says. “Is it an act? Or does he save up all of his goodness for the negotiation room?”
“I think he saves it up,” Walt says, blowing the vape cloud away from us. “Coralee thinks it’s an act.”
“Nah, it’s too real to be an act,” Nisha says. “I think, it’s like, if a farmer has a hundred acres, and he robs all of the nutrients and minerals from ninety-nine of his acres in order to give all of the goodness to one favorite acre, that’s Malcolm. All the goodness that he has goes to that negotiating table, to the deal-making process. But the rest of his crops completely suffer.”
“Wait, you think that he uses his goodness up in business negotiations and doesn’t have any left for the rest of his life?” I ask.
Nisha shrugs. “My humble opinion.”
“I don’t see goodness or being friendly as finite,” I say. “I don’t think a person only has a specific amount of friendliness to spread around like nutrients in a field. I think goodness is unlimited. One of those things where, the more you use it, the more you have. Like laughter.”
“Huh,” Nisha says, unconvinced.
“The more you use it, the more you have,” I say. “That’s what I think.”
“But then why would Malcolm utilize it only in this small segment of his life?” Nisha asks. “If he has it available to him elsewhere? Why go around trying to get everybody to hate him?”
“Mmm,” I say. It’s a good question. Why?
“Nah,” Walt says. “He hates everyone and everyone hates him, and that’s how he rolls. But he also likes to win, so he pulls it out in the negotiating room.”
They analyze Malcolm’s personality some more. For how much they seem to fear Malcolm, they’re definitely fascinated by him, and they have elaborate opinions about him.
The session finally ends, and I’m back in the limo. Malcolm isn’t riding with us, but my seat is oriented so that I see him walking across the road with his lawyers and money crunchers in his preferred fighter jet formation where he’s flanked by people, yet excruciatingly alone.
It’s hardly a shock that those who work for him are fascinated with him. He is fascinating. It’s hard not to look at him, hard not to watch him, hard not to wonder about him.
In every way.
Have you been instructed on protocol in the negotiating room? I have very strict preferences.
OMG, it was so wrong to take that sexy. I should never have gone to see that Fifty Shades movie with Mia!
“Elle! Earth to Elle,” Nisha says.
I turn to face her. “I’m sorry. What?”
“What do you think? Will you make him be all good now with your empathy program?”
Walt and Nisha are grinning, because Malcolm having empathy is such a joke to them.
“I’m telling you” —I point at each of them, from one to the other and back— “goodness. Empathy. Not finite. No way.”
Nisha claps. “Hah!”
“A wild-eyed optimist,” Walt says. “Watch out, Mr. Blackberg!”
“Yeah, watch out!” Nisha exclaims. “She’s gonna beat you over the head and drag that goodness right out of you!”
Walt is laughing.
I snort. “How did you know my plan?”
“So obvious,” Nisha says.
Walt finds sea salt dark chocolate treats in the snack pouch and passes them around. I try not to gobble mine like a freak.
Am I a wild-eyed optimist? Is it just stupidly optimistic and idealistic that I’m thinking I can change his heart?
I remind myself that people’s hearts change sometimes.
Back at the hotel, Malcolm gathers the team in a private room, fully back to his grumpy self. “What did you observe?” he asks, or more, demands.
Nisha thinks that the lawyers are unhappy to be there. Malcolm wants to know why she suspects it and she gives her reasons, mostly having to do with facial expressions. She suspects they’re giving him a deal on their hours because he’s an old client.
Malcolm nods. “Legacy client. On retainer. Nobody thinks there’s going to be a deal here.”
“Exactly,” Nisha says.
“You might be right,” Malcolm says.
Nisha beams.
He wants to hear if anybody noticed when people perked up. Nobody noticed anything, including me, but you can see what Malcolm noticed, and it’s fascinating.
Lawrence informs him that he caught the son on the phone a few times, and that Gerrold noticed it one of the times, and looked displeased.
Malcolm nods at this. “If Junior had his way, Dad would never get anywhere near a negotiating table, anywhere near somebody who wants to buy the place. Junior thinks that if he breaks it apart himself, he’ll get more money. On the off chance we reach a deal, he’ll try to nix it. So why is Gerrold here? What does he want? Maybe it’s not about schooling Junior. Gerrold’s not an idiot.”
Walt says that on Facebook, Junior says he wants to start some kind of sports marketing operation. Walt theorizes that Gerrold is working to build the son’s skills for that, perhaps. Malcolm nods, and Walt practically grows two inches. Other people give their opinions.
Malcolm soaks it all in. Listening. Watching. Quietly curious.
Today’s coaching session is scheduled for 3:30 p.m. in the “Blue Flame” conference room, which turns out to be a small, elegant lounge with a picture window that overlooks building tops and distant hills. There’s no long table, no projector or screen, just five comfy chairs arranged around a low table.
It’s more like a place to have after-dinner brandy than a business meeting spot. A mod fireplace at one end features just a strip of blue flame.
“Hence the name,” Malcolm says, and I spin around to find him leaning in the doorframe, eyes sparkling. “There’s also a Green Flame room and an Orange Flame room. God save us from luxury hotel naming conventions.” He sits. “Take a seat, I’m across town at five.”
I take the seat next to him and set up my iPad on the low table.
Malcolm’s not smiling or anything, but he seems like he’s in a good mood. “So do you have any coaching for me on my negotiation style?” he asks, like it’s all a joke.
“No,” I say.
He leans back and crosses his legs. His big, brown eyes would look kind if it weren’t for his villain’s eyebrows arching over them, dark and severe. “You’re missing an opportunity to annoy me. You could open up a whole new avenue of torment with instructive commentary about my negotiation performance.”
“I’m not here to torment you,” I say.
“So what did you think? Why do you think Gerrold’s at the table?”
“The negotiation process isn’t my area of concern,” I say.
“And what is your area of concern?” he asks, and I have the uncanny feeling that he’s looking right through me, like he knows about my area of concern as well as my forbidden fascination with him.
I keep my face carefully devoid of expression. “You know what area,” I say.
His eyes twinkle darkly.
Oh my god! Did that sound sexy? “My area is the video program that I have designed,” I clarify firmly.
“It’s entirely possible that you’re a better negotiator than I am,” he says. “You don’t know how much money I’d pay to avoid watching any more of that footage.”
“Why?” I ask. “Because you’re starting to see those people as human?”
“No, because it’s just so bloody tedious.”
I frown, thinking of all of my friends that are on that footage.
“Come on, now, aren’t you a reader of body language? Doesn’t that sort of thing fall under emotional intelligence or soft skills or whatever it is that you’re doing here? You have no theory on Gerrold and the negotiation?”
“Maybe Gerrold wants his son to see the beauty in what he built,” I suggest. “To see the human value in it instead of looking at it coldly as a commodity to be destroyed.”
“Yes,” Malcolm says sarcastically. “I’m sure that’s it.”
“We need to get to the session here,” I say.
His phone makes a soft chime sound.
“Your phone,” I say.
He shuts it off completely and slides it over to me.
“That’s okay,” I say. “Just keep it off.”
“No, no.” He picks it up and holds it out to me, gaze fixed on mine. “Take it.”
My pulse kicks up. A phone is such an intimate thing—almost like a part of a person. I’m pretty sure that if I said no, he wouldn’t push it, but some perverse part of me wants to hold it in my hand again, like a talisman or an orb or something. Is that warped?
I watch myself reach my hand out, watch myself take it from his fingers. I curl my fingers around it, enjoying the cool heaviness of it. God, I barely even recognize myself anymore.
When I look up, Malcolm is watching me.
“And what did you think about Gerrold as a person?” he asks. “How does he strike you?”
“I thought he seemed nice,” I say. “He reminds me of a fisherman.”
“A fisherman?” he asks, interested.
“With the cap that he wears. And his weather-beaten skin. I could imagine him in a ratty knit sweater, casting the line.”
Malcolm asks me more questions about what the fisherman’s cap says, things like that. Malcolm seems interested in what Gerrold hopes to say about himself to the world. For being such a misanthrope, he really is quite the student of human behavior.
“You think you’ll get a deal?” I ask him.
“We’ll see,” Malcolm says. His brown eyes look extra translucent in the natural light. “My guess is that Gerrold’ll be begging for me to buy in the end. My goal is always that they end up begging me to do exactly what I already want to do.”
“Another tick for self-esteem—and not the bug kind, either!” I say brightly, reaching for the iPad, willing my hands not to tremble. I have today’s video all cued up. I press play and there’s Jada and Antonio in the elevator telling elevator stories. I’m grateful for the way the footage reminds me of my goal here, which does not involve falling for the fierce allure of Malcolm Blackberg.
Antonio tells a funny story that involves gorilla costumes and a pizza delivery guy. Jada chimes in, describing the show Antonio was in at the time. I try not to smile, remembering the whole thing. This is my family.
“Question,” Malcolm suddenly says.
I pause the video and turn to him, full of hope. Is he going to ask a question about Jada or Antonio? “Yes?”
“What are your specific instructions? Regarding this training, that is.”
I’m not sure what to say—what are the instructions they give to coaches? I raise my chin. “That’s not your concern.”
“You’re to play the video for me, that much I’ve gathered,” he says.
“That would be one element,” I say.
“You’re to ensure that I sit in front of the video while it’s playing. Not looking at my phone.”
“Yes,” I say.
“How about this, then,” he says. “You’d set me up in front of the video and press play and then go about your business. I’d assure you that I’d sit in front of that screen for the full hour.” He brushes a bit of invisible lint from his sleeve. Two dark chunks of hair fall to his forehead, soft spikes grazing the top of his dark brows. “You’d have that promise from me.”
“Wait,” I say, “you’re asking me to let you watch it on your own?”
“You’d have my assurance that, wherever I am, it would be playing the entire time. Isn’t that what you’re here for? To play me this video? To see that I am present while it’s playing?”
“So you can turn off the screen or the sound and do other things the whole time?”
“You’d be able to say with complete confidence that I was present the whole time it was playing,” he continues, as though I didn’t just make a major objection. “And you’d tick off the box on your little form each and every day with a clean conscience, knowing that you’ve executed your duties perfectly. And I’d give you a nice tip at the end. Say, twenty thousand dollars. Very nice tip for a job well done.”
“Wait—what?” I feel my eyes widen. “Are you bribing me?”
“I think it’s customary to reward somebody for a job well done, don’t you?” he asks casually.
I gasp. “You are bribing me.”
“I’m simply suggesting an alternate way to run this course. One that would benefit us both.”
“Oh my god,” I say, realizing that I probably sound completely naive, what with my utter shock. Also—twenty-thousand freaking dollars!
It’s a lot of money, but even if I took it and spread it around between my neighbors, it really wouldn’t do anything. Forty units, that would be five hundred per unit. We’d still have to move out. Maisey and John and some of the other older people would still lose their rent-controlled places. And worst of all, we’d still lose each other. Some of us have talked about getting a major house together somewhere in one of the boroughs, but nowhere really works, considering our different jobs and needs.
“Well? What do you think?” he asks, as though he’s wondering about my opinion on the color of his tie or something and not offering me a bribe.
No amount of money will get me to sell out my friends, not that I can say that to him.
“No thank you, that’s what I think.” I push play and focus on the film. Kelsey’s telling about strange elevator conversations that she’s had, and then Antonio reminds her about the no-sex-in-the-elevator rule that was recently instituted. I bite my lip, remembering when that happened. There were some very bad offenders in the building, and let’s just say, you could always tell.
“Question,” Malcolm says.
I pause the video. “I hope you know, Malcolm, every time I pause the video, time gets added to the end.”
“Fifty thousand,” he says.
My mouth goes dry. “I’m not one of your negotiation foes.”
“Please. I’d never increase an offer by two hundred and fifty percent in a negotiation setting.”
“Yet you’re doing it for me.”
“Dedication should be rewarded.”
“You need to stop trying to get out of this,” I say.
“I wouldn’t be out of it. You’d have assurances that I’m playing it for myself while I’m present in the room, and you’d be able to report as much to your boss.”
“Except maybe you’re watching…but with the sound off and the screen black, right? And working or having a conference call on Bluetooth the whole time?”
He studies my face. “They can’t be paying you more than that. Fifty thousand. For a four-week gig?”
“It’s not happening.”
If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. But then he’s a master of the poker face. “Sixty. And that tip won’t be on the table for long.”
My mind reels with what I could do with that much money. I could get a decent pl
ace. I could get out of the credit card debt I accrued during my mother’s illness—I was spending money like a drunken sailor back then, paying for every little thing that I thought could help her or make her more comfortable. Or I could help a few of my friends with their down payments on new places. But sixty thousand isn’t enough to help everybody—not by a long shot. And no amount of money is worth trading in the only family I have—these amazing women who took me in, who’ve added love and meaning and endless joy to my life. “You would be wise not to bribe me again,” I tell him.
“Why?” he asks. “Why would I be wise not to do that? What are they paying you? Can you tell me that?”
“What Bexley Partners pays me is proprietary,” I announce.
“Come on, now,” Malcolm drawls, looking highly amused. “You know who I mean.”
My pulse races. Everything is so weird and complicated—why did I ever think I could pull this off? I need to get back to familiar ground.
I suck in a breath, reminding myself that I’m in charge here. Malcolm’s not in charge; I’m in charge. “I get it—you’re a billionaire. But guess what? That doesn’t mean that you get to go around bribing people and doing whatever ridic thing flies into your mind.”
“Whatever ridic thing flies into my mind?” His brown eyes become warm as he smiles. “I don’t know, most days being a billionaire does mean that.”
“Are you ready to resume? You don’t want to be late for your five o’clock,” I say.
He sits up, baffled. “Come on, now. You’re not really turning that down.”
“Yes, I am,” I say. “Are you ready to get back to it?”
His stare hits right down to my core. “They couldn’t be paying you more than sixty.”
“That’s not your concern,” I say.
He blinks, studying my face. My blood races. Was it crazy to turn that down? I feel like he’s on the verge of figuring me out. I wish so badly that I could consult with Willow right now. She’d know what to do. Or Jada. A lot of people who aren’t me would know what to do.
He says, “If there are other requirements, we could work together on that. Nobody will know.”
Return Billionaire to Sender Page 10